


gonna tell her i dream of her every night

by PensamientosOscuros



Category: Harlots (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, mentions of past daniel/charlotte
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 09:07:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15838146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PensamientosOscuros/pseuds/PensamientosOscuros
Summary: Charlotte believes in coincidences as much as the next person, but sometimes she believes in something further, in certain mysterious forces pulling people together for an unknown reason. Otherwise, there really is no explanation for Isabella to be sitting at the café Emily works at, while Emily is there, and while she is there.-Isabella is a professor; Charlotte is just trying to graduate.





	gonna tell her i dream of her every night

**Author's Note:**

> In desperate need of modern AUs and happy endings.

 

“Look at her. She’s a vision, my god.” Charlotte has given up every pretense of taking notes, and is simply looking, chin on her hand and all, as the lecturer scribbles symbol after symbol at the front of the room.

Emily clicks her tongue. “She’s hot, I’ll give you that.”

Kitty, always the opinionated one, chimes in. “Definitely too pretty to be a college professor.”

The friends are in congregation at the back of the classroom, the trivial topic of the day going from frozen mozzarella sticks in Emily’s freezer, to Isabella Fitzwilliam, their applied mathematics professor currently writing something on the blackboard, something they will most definitely regret not paying attention to when midterms roll around.

“Shut up, is she not allowed to have a nice job just ‘cause she’s hot? Maybe I’m aiming too high considering the average partner expectancy in this group, but she’s gorgeous _and_ has a doctorate! She’s basically perfect.” Charlotte has never been shy about her opinions, and she is not going to start now, not when her crush on her applied maths professor is _finally_ being validated by her punctilious friends. She’s at a point in her infatuation in which every little, unimportant thing about the woman makes her world turn. For example, she is _delighted_ at the fact that unlike many other professors, she must slide the blackboard higher instead of lower, and she often does – if Charlotte understands about half of what’s on it, that’s _her_ problem. Her dark hair is usually up, her impossibly blue eyes are always framed by glasses and the combination is so devastatingly attractive that Charlotte is not ashamed to admit she’s thought about failing the damn subject more than once just to sit there and stare at her, like a dumbass, for another semester.

“Yeah, doctorates give you a certain _je ne sais quoi_ , don’t they?”

“That’s not it, that’s not it. Remember Ian Mitchell last year, the calculus prof? He had a PhD and he was dumb as shit.” The girls snicker at Emily’s words, and the blonde smirks, self-satisfied.

“Truly a wonder that he could put his trousers on every morning,” Kitty adds, and the conversation takes an irreversible turn for the ridiculous.

 

\--

 

“Did you finish the frozen food already? The meatballs will go bad soon, you need to take them out and thaw them before…”

Walking into the kitchen, Charlotte rolls her eyes good-naturedly at the reminder, and makes sure to let her mother know she had, in fact, eaten them two days ago. Every few days Margaret calls, stressed and worried about her eldest, and every single time she makes sure that her daughter is not letting herself starve or freeze to death, as one _does_ in college. Charlotte simply humors her, amused that at twenty-four she’s still Margaret’s little girl.

“How’s pa? It’s like he doesn’t know how to use his phone, the old man,” she teases as she puts away the pot she had left to dry the night before. She keeps constant contact with her siblings, texting every day – even when Margaret would rather Jacob didn’t have access to a phone just yet. Their conversations are as inane as they are entertaining, but her father is, by all intents and purposes, useless with technology.

“He’s good, his back’s bothering him, but it’s his own fault for going off to play football like he’s still a lad.” The young woman shakes her head with a laugh, opening the fridge to fetch one of the remaining apples from her last grocery run, almost too ripe already.

“Ah, I miss you, ma.”

She can hear whatever rustle Margaret had going on stop for a second. “I miss you too, my Charlotte. And to think you were a baby just now…”

“Oh, god.”

 

\--

 

Working in retail is every bit as bad as her mother has always told her, but she’s in no position to be picky about jobs.

“Charlotte, the cheese needs restocking _now_.” She nods her acknowledgement to Matt, and continues rearranging the canned goods shelf, huffing when she hears his grating voice again, hardly a few seconds after. Admittedly, working at the local supermarket has its pros – last week she managed to take home three defective coffee packages, courtesy of her manager, and her and Emily’s hyperactive synapses appreciated the gesture –, but she often finds herself jealous of Fanny’s position as an intern in a small publisher, cozy and quiet in a tiny office somewhere.

She has been putting up bags of cheese, moving the older ones forward and wiping at shelves for ten minutes when she almost snaps at Matt again. Except the person talking to her is _not_ Matt, and it takes her all of five seconds to notice.

“Excuse me, where can I find plastic gloves? I’ve gone through the home section and…” When Charlotte turns around and sees Isabella Fitzwilliam, she doesn’t even remember what gloves are. “Hey, you’re in my class, aren’t you?”

Despite the surprise, Charlotte thinks on her feet and manages a smile before she registers the question. “Hi! Yes, Charlotte Wells, I’m in your applied maths course.” She stands up from her position on the floor, and she _marvels_ at how short the woman makes her look in comparison.

The professor has a contemplative smile as she regards Charlotte, as if she was understanding something, her blue eyes as intriguing as ever. Charlotte has always been told she’s a charmer, a _charismatic little minx_ , as her aunt Nancy often calls her, but now she prays she doesn’t look as stupid as she thinks she does.

Apparently, she looks decent enough, for the professor speaks once again. “I used to work in one of these, too, back when I studied.”

“Not too long ago, then.” She hopes she’s not crossing any boundaries; the joke is as innocent as it gets, but she can’t help the nervous, almost regretful pull in her stomach she feels until the woman replies, all raised eyebrows and unconcealed amusement.

“If this is a ploy for me to go easy on Friday’s test, it’s not working,” she stops dramatically, taking in Charlotte’s pleased smile and reciprocating with a conspiring look, “But I commend you for trying. Now, before I forget, where are the plastic gloves?”

The student tells her where to find them – _we recently changed that section, I’m sorry_ – and with one last glance and a sweet smile, the woman’s on her way and Charlotte is glued there, trying to wipe the dumb grin off her face.

“Charlotte, you still aren’t done with the cheese?”

And it’s gone.

 

\--

 

“Daniel called me this morning.”

Fanny looks up from Emily’s hand, nail polish brush poised in midair. “He did? I had no idea! How’s he doing overseas?”

Charlotte ignores Emily’s whispered _prick_ and proceeds to tell them about her ex’s adventures in some university in North Carolina, new girlfriend and almost arrests included.

“My mum was so happy when he left, the witch. Her gut’s never wrong, though, I’ll give her that.” She recalls the day almost a year ago that Daniel and her met up for the last time as a couple, before the approaching distance and cooling feelings ended their relationship. She was left with no glory nor sorrow, simply with an overwhelming feeling of relief and nostalgia that chased her for weeks after. “But anyway, moving on. Guess who I saw yesterday at work while I looked like an absolute moron?”

“Could be anyone, babe.”

She chuckles. “Fair, but it was Isabella _fucking_ Fitzwilliam in the fucking flesh _._ ” Fanny stops painting Emily’s nails again, but this time their response is much more explosive.

“ _What?_ In your supermarket?”

“Isn’t that the lecturer you have a crush on?”

“What are the odds, Charlie? She went there to see you, I’m calling it.” Emily sounds decisive enough that Charlotte blushes.

“God, wouldn’t that be great. But no, she almost didn’t recognize me, so it’s not likely, is it now?” It sounds like she’s defending herself from _something_ , but she ignores the feeling that tells her that she’s allowing herself to be hopeful when she shouldn’t. “I thought she was my coworker at first, and I almost tossed her into the fucking cheese aisle before I noticed.”

Emily’s raucous laughter makes her feel better about her stupidity.

“Did you guys talk?” Fanny asks, genuinely interested.

“Not really, but she seemed sweet enough.” She remembers running into a couple other lecturers during her first years at uni and none of them even acknowledged her in public, so she deems this encounter a success.

“Of course she seemed sweet, you want to climb her like a tree.”

Charlotte can only cover her face at that, laughing disbelievingly into her hands.

 

\--

 

“Can I come in?” Charlotte opens the door slowly when she hears an invitation, as if giving the professor time to take back her words.

“The notorious C.W.,” the woman teases, a glint in her eye that makes Charlotte’s hands sweat as she closes the door. She’s sitting behind her desk, and she discards some papers she was working on, focusing on Charlotte. “Come on in, please. Sit down.”

“Thank you.” Charlotte smiles at her, sitting on the other side of the desk. “You remembered my name,” she adds, jokingly.

“Well, it’s common courtesy. I’d hope you would remember mine as well.” The playful smile on her lips is maddening, and Charlotte feels like she’s getting much more than she bargained for, even when she’s getting _nothing._ “What can I help you with, Charlotte?” She’s back to serious, her hands interlaced on the wooden table, eyes attentive.

“I just, I would like to revise last week’s test. I’m happy with my grade and all, I would just like to know where I failed, what’s to improve. The usual.” Her voice never wavers, and she considers it a victory.

“Alright, we can do that.” The woman is looking through her folders, searching for the correct test. “I have to say, I’m surprised that you of all people would come check their mistakes, when your grade is nothing short of remarkable.” Charlotte can feel her cheeks reddening in spite of herself, and she doesn’t know if it’s because of the compliment, or because she looks as transparent as ever, using the most incongruous of excuses to see her professor.

“One can never be too confident, right?”

“Right.” Isabella looks at her with a knowing smile and hands her the exam.

Charlotte places the papers on the table so the professor will be able to see, and silently skims through her answers, trying to block the presence in front of her. She frowns when she is genuinely shocked by one of her mistakes. She points it out, sliding the paper closer to the woman.

“How is this not the answer? I went through the entire formula, I even tried both methods and they basically gave me the same number.”

If she’s distracted by lean, pale fingers pulling the exam closer to the professor, she pretends not to care.

“Oh, yeah. See, this is the basic formula…” Charlotte, her mother’s pride and joy, the exemplary student, could pass for a bumbling fool if she had to repeat aloud a single word coming out of the woman’s mouth, for her ears are hearing but not comprehending, and all her senses are on overdrive, barely assimilating anything except the woman. Of course, she gathers enough brain power to nod and hum her assent, but she prays she won’t have to prove she understands.

When she’s done, the woman looks above her glasses. “You get it now?”

Charlotte’s eyes are wide in her eagerness to please. “Yeah, yeah, thank you. I will be more careful next time.” And she can’t help but smile, like the woman looking at her physically makes her lips twitch up and her eyes go soft.

“I wouldn’t think too much about it, though. A simple mistake, could happen to anyone.” The understanding in her voice makes Charlotte feel slightly bad that she pretended to care about her exam just to see her, but only slightly. “Is that all?”

She’s asking about the errors, Charlotte knows it, but she still allows a part of her brain to read between the lines. If she were braver, more reckless, she might do something about it, but fortunately for her bachelor, she isn’t. She takes the exam, and with one last scan gives it back.

“Yeah, the rest I expected, I’m not surprised. My mother always says I shouldn’t have majored in business when I have trouble doing simple addition.” She pretends to be offended by Margaret’s candor for a second, before she sighs dramatically. “Thank you for helping, I didn’t email you beforehand and I wasn’t sure you’d be available.”

The woman puts the exam back with the rest and leans back into her chair, her disposition open. “I’m glad you decided to come despite the odds, then. Other people have results not this enviable, and they’ve come nowhere near my office.”

“Well, not many of them have come see me at the supermarket either, so I wouldn’t take it personally.” She doesn’t expect the woman’s full, joyful laugh, and now she’s smiling too, all teeth and pride, and thinks she’s more comfortable here than she ever thought she’d be.

“That’s a fair point, thank you.” Her eyes are soft from up close, Charlotte notices, like she’s the only person in the world that matters. She wonders if she does the same to everyone.

“Anyway, thank you once again; I will get out of your hair now,” she says as she gets up, putting the strap of her bag over her shoulder.

“Nonsense, this has been the most fun I’ve had all day,” Isabella quips, getting up too, dusting off her pants.

“Yeah, it almost tops my flatmate shrinking all my white clothes this morning.”

Isabella nods playfully as if she were taking criticism, but she can’t conceal the smile.

“I will see you soon, Charlotte. Hopefully, just to talk about how happy you are with your midterms.”

Charlotte smiles at that, bright like the sun, and opens the door. “I’ll have to do well, then.” She tilts her head as adieu, light on her feet. “Goodbye, Isabella.”

“See you, Charlotte.”

 

\--

 

She’s on cashier duty twice a week if she’s not covering anyone’s shift, and she can say with all certainty that every time she jumps on the till she loses two years of her life.

She’s three hours in, monotonously scanning items and reading out numbers, no incidents worth reporting so far, when she looks up, and finds _her._

“Didn’t expect you here.” Isabella jests. That teasing smile, a mix between coy and daring, fits Isabella so well that it’s hard to imagine any other expression on her face.

“I come here to pass the time,” she smiles too, in a permanent state of euphoria whenever she’s with the woman, before moving the divider back into the side and starting to scan her stuff. She’s thankful for muscle memory doing most of the work, because if it were up to her conscious abilities, she would have accidentally ripped the bag of frozen spinach by now. “So far there’s been no injuries today.”

“Is it fun?”

“Let’s say this has been the most fun I’ve had all day.”

The woman nods her response; if she understands the reference she doesn’t show. She’s bagging her purchases quickly into a green fabric bag with the inscription “ _Go vegan!_ ” on it, and Charlotte can almost hear Emily’s derisive _she’s vegan? That’s a gay woman right there, babe_ in her head.

It’s been two weeks since the meeting in Isabella’s office, and apart from the crowded classes and casual hallway greetings, they haven’t seen each other since, to the student’s dismay. Right now though, her mood has improved so much that when she scans a package of vegan cheese, she has to stifle her laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

She looks up at her, thankful that there’s just a young man in line, and stops to show her the cheese before handing it to her. “I’ve had this cheese before. It’s _horrendous._ ”

There’s an amused smile where she expected defensiveness, and she’s pleased with herself.

“Do you have vegan cheese often?”

Charlotte snorts. “No, but my ex used to put it in _everything_ , and let’s say it’s not of gourmet quality.” She tells Isabella her total when she’s done with the items, and despite her manners, she can’t bring herself to make eye contact. It translates into nervous tapping on the metal surface, but the woman seems not to notice.

When she’s done paying she takes the bag off the counter, and before turning around, she looks at Charlotte.

“Thank you for the cheese. I’ll have to change your opinion of it sometime.”

Not even Matt could erase the smile off her face today.

 

\--

 

“She’s vegan? That’s gay.” Charlotte is not surprised in the slightest.

They’re sitting in their usual spot at the back of the room, watching as Isabella solves someone’s doubt regarding something she’s gone over at least five times already.

“My brother’s vegan, and straight as an arrow,” Kitty counterpoints, as if veganism and homosexuality really were connected at a biological level. Still, Charlotte shrugs in support of her friend.

“Well I’m gay and I’m not vegan, genius,” Emily argues, and Charlotte can tell just by that statement that they’re in for a ride. “What I mean _is_ , we need to look at all the facts here. You have a _mathematics professor_ , who loves wearing button up shirts, has never mentioned a husband _and_ is vegan on top of it. I know my community, and as a bisexual, you should too.” Emily’s face is as serious as ever, but Charlotte can tell she’s trying hard not to laugh at her own theory.

“I want to believe you, I _do_ , but I need something more compelling than the fact that she loves animals and I want to marry her.”

It’s like she heard them talking. When Charlotte looks at Isabella again, her eyes are trained on her, as if she finally found her in a sea of faces for the first time. The sound of her friends’ chattering fades away during the second it takes the woman to look away.

If she’s not gay, Charlotte won’t recover from the disappointment.

 

\--

 

Charlotte believes in coincidences as much as the next person, but sometimes she believes in something further, in certain mysterious forces pulling people together for an unknown reason. Otherwise, there really is no explanation for Isabella to be sitting at the café Emily works at, while Emily is there, and while _she_ is there.

“How long has she been here? I swear, I’ve never even seen her around here before.”

Emily sucks her teeth while she puts on her _Café-tea-ria_ apron, surreptitiously looking behind Charlotte at the woman reading some papers in the back of the café, an empty mug next to her. She seems concentrated enough that it would not be likely for her to notice them – only an earthquake could shake her.

“We just arrived here, so it’s safe to say that she’s not a stalker. Go sit with her.” Charlotte rolls her eyes at the joke, and still doesn’t move from her position at the counter. Emily’s manager knows the four girls well enough already that she won’t mind her there as long as she’s not holding up the line.

“Look Charlie, at this rate I’m going to be the one asking her out, and I’m not saying I won’t like it,” she taunts her, beginning to reload the coffee machine.

Charlotte raises her eyebrows, reading the challenge. Emily is quite the charmer, and no threat regarding her affections can be taken lightly. “Bold of you to assume that she likes dyed blondes.”

The resulting gasp is as comical as Emily’s fake offended face. “How _dare_ you, Charlotte Wells, you backstabbing…”

As she sees her friend almost knock over a jug of almond milk in her dramatics, an idea forms in her head, and she grabs Emily’s pen from her breast pocket.

“Get me some paper, Ems.”

Five minutes later, as Emily, note in hand, takes a brand new almond milk coffee to Isabella, Charlotte leaves the café, a satisfied smile shining on her face.

 

\--

 

The next day, she almost falls off the bed when she sees a notification pop up on her phone, an email by a Dr. Fitzwilliam.

_Thank you for the coffee, let me return the favour._

In her excitement, she almost misses the invitation to the Data Science Conference in London next weekend.

 

\--

 

She’s been checking the address on her phone the entire metro ride to the Olympia, her anxiety getting the best of her. Even when she gets off in Hammersmith and turns off Google maps, she keeps looking around, making sure that she doesn’t end up on the other side of town. Her hair’s styled neatly for the first time in a while, curls tied back and lips a soft shade of red, and she worries that she will look out of place in a convention full of professors and mathematicians and _Isabella._

By the time she sees the crystal dome above the building, she has almost driven herself crazy. There’s people all around the entrance, some attendees even younger than her, chit chatting amongst themselves like in a schoolyard. She’s looking around for the Isabella, wrapping her coat tighter around herself while she waits in the unforgiving November weather, wishing she had taken the woman up on her offer to go with her from campus. It feels pathetic to admit to herself that the main reason why she’d said no was because she had been afraid she’d ruin their day before it even started.

When she finally spots her, Isabella’s relieved face warms her up enough to stay outside for the next ten hours.

“Have you been waiting long? Your cheeks are so red!” Her childlike smile covers her concern.

“I just arrived here,” she lies, waving her hand dismissively, “I’m literally still out of breath from the commute.”

The woman hasn’t stopped looking at her. “You should’ve come with me, it’s ridiculous that my car is parked three minutes away and you’re freezing cold.”

“What can I say, where I come from it’s not a proper day out ‘till you don’t get frostbite.”

Isabella chuckles and gently starts guiding her in the direction of the entrance. “I would _love_ for you to show me your Siberian home one day.”

“Oh, I will.”

Time passes quickly at the conference, whether it’s because of the TED-talk-style speeches or the company, she doesn’t know. They’ve claimed a couple chairs close to the stage, where they can appraise everyone moving on and off the platform as if they were reporters at a press conference, joking and gossiping under their breaths like old friends. The food is good, the drinks amazing, and by the time they start to mingle they are buzzing with excitement.

The older woman has taken her time introducing Charlotte to many of her friends – even those who lean heavily on the _just acquaintances_ side –, and the pride she exudes is going to keep Charlotte high for a week. At this point, it’s hard to distinguish between her attraction and her admiration for the woman.

She’s well into her third tropical cocktail when her mum calls her. The room’s too loud, and she points to her phone when Isabella interrupts her conversation to ask where she’s going. It takes her about a minute to find a backdoor, and she joins the few people braving the cold to have a smoke. She sits down on the steps, keeping to herself, while her mother tells her about her day.

Margaret is finally home after being in her office all day – downsides of successfully building a family-owned company and refusing to share the reins –, and Charlotte tells her how happy she is that she called, how happy she is right now. Her mind doesn’t fleet to anyone in particular, but the warmth swimming through her limbs and swarming her stomach, partly aided by the alcohol, tells her that the reason has a name and is inside the building.

Before she hangs up she tells her ma she misses her (she always does) and makes her promise Jacob will be getting his allowance tomorrow. She doesn’t tell her about Lucy’s new potential job, the same way Lucy doesn’t tell her about her unrequited crush.

She sits there after she’s done talking, waiting for the snow to come, her eyes trained on the darkening sky like she used to do with Lucy all those years ago, covered with a blanket and munching on whatever sweets pa would sneak them.

“Care for a cigarette?”

She looks up, startled, and looks at the man holding the cigarette. She thinks she might have seen him onstage earlier, but she can’t be sure. She’s still a bit muzzy, so she smiles up at him and takes it.

“Thank you.” She accepts his lighter, and gives it back a few seconds later with a smile.

“Got bored of the conference?” He seems nice enough, definitely older than the average attendant; his greying hair and frameless glasses remind her of her family doctor.

“Bored? In a theoretical science event? Who could ever be!”

He chuckles and takes a drag, looking ahead. “I’ll admit, they could be better. The food was the saving grace this year. All that seafood, great choice.”

Charlotte thinks about Isabella, about her loose hair and flushed cheeks and her endearing laugh. She takes the cigarette to her mouth, and she can almost imagine her silhouette forming in the smoke in front of her. “Everything seemed nice to me. I expected some black tie thing, boring speeches, dry laughter…”

“Ah, I see. There’s quite a few of those too, worry not. May I get your name?” He asks, sitting down too.

“Charlotte. I would give you my last name too, but I’m afraid you wouldn’t know me at all.”

“And how do you find yourself here, then? This is not an open house event.”

She smiles to herself. “Isn’t that the question.” At his curious gaze, she elaborates, letting the remaining alcohol in her blood talk for her. “Would you believe me if I told you I came here because the woman I hopelessly, stupidly like asked me to?”

He’s silent for only a few seconds. “And who’s the lucky lady?”

She feels emboldened by the anonymity. “The most beautiful woman in there, I’m sure you’ve seen her. She’s my applied maths professor, talk about _mess…”_

The butt of the cigarette leaves a black mark where she dabs it on the floor.

“And why would she invite you here?”

“Because…” she ponders silently, knowing the logical answer is _because she cares about me, thinks I could learn something,_ not letting wistful thinking get the best of her. “Honestly? I think she’s a good woman, and she thought me being here would be useful for me. If only she knew.”

“And what’s the voice in the back of your head telling you?”

She turns to look at him, mystified. His eyes, soft and comprehending, are enclosed by wrinkles, and his mouth is set on a patient smile, as if waiting for a child to finally assimilate a lesson.

“That voice? That I shouldn’t talk to strangers I find on the back exit of some ancient building.” She’s grinning, and he chuckles again, shaking his head.

“Fair point.”

She doesn’t realize her teeth are clattering until he offers her another cigarette, _for the cold_ , he says.

“Actually, I should go back. I didn’t come here alone, after all.” She gets up and dusts off the back of her pants, now freezing cold. “It was lovely meeting you…”

“Ibrahim.”

“Ibrahim,” she fake curtsies, and with a goodbye, she’s back in the building, her body already thrumming.

The atmosphere is surprisingly nice; she’s always found comfort in the familiar noisiness of strangers coming together to share their time and experiences, and the beautiful glass ceiling and bare brick walls resemble an olden station, the ones in movies and books that she loves. She remembers being at a similar place, at one of the _Hauptbahnhöfe_ in Germany on vacation with her family back when Jacob was only a baby, letting life pass her by without a care in the world.

She’s shaken out of her reverie by a hand on her shoulder. She sees her when she turns around.

“I thought you left without me,” Isabella says, her eyes tender and happy. Her cheeks are still flushed, but this time from the warmth inside the room and the riveting conversation.

“Sorry, it was just my mum calling.”

“Everything alright?” Charlotte could kiss her frown away.

“Yeah, she just wanted to talk. She misses me when I’m away.” The thought of surprising her mother on a weekend has crossed her mind more and more lately, and it’s only reinforced by Margaret’s tired voice still ringing in her head. She’s always admired her mother, from her fair tirades against a especially heinous client she would be forced to deal with to the distinct smell of her cooking softly wafting all through the house, and the claw holding her stomach tight and hot reminds her an awful lot of guilt.

“She has good reason to.” Her sweet words pour over Charlotte’s heart like honey. “I actually came to check on you. It’s already eight, so feel free to tell me when you want to leave, okay? I doubt there’s anything interesting happening anymore.”

She doesn’t need to be told twice, her body turning on like a lightbulb at the prospect of their shared time, uninterrupted and private at last if only for a second, and in a few minutes they’ve gathered their things and respectfully bid goodbye to everyone they knew still loitering around.

It’s finally snowing outside, and Charlotte didn’t realize how much the temperature had dropped while she was talking to Ibrahim. As much as she’s used to the cold, the inviting atmosphere inside the Olympia leaving her body serves to calm her down, if only a bit.

Isabella wraps her wool scarf tight around her neck, and gestures with her head towards the parking lot a few meters away. “I parked right over there, come on.”

Shouldn’t she say no? Is her fear of an indiscretion not as valid as before, even more now that liquid courage is still running through her veins, poisoning her brain and tampering with her decisions? She’s about to make up a feeble excuse, anything to retain the last vestige of composure keeping her together, when she feels Isabella gently holding her wrist and pulling.

“It’s cold,” she murmurs, soft and logical, “you’ll have time to walk around another day. Let me take you home.” With another soft tug, Charlotte’s resolve is dust and dripping through her fingers, and she lets herself be guided to the car.

She’s almost as warm inside the car as she was inside the building, the heating system breaking the tight silence only interrupted by Charlotte’s occasional indications. She finds herself looking out the window, watching the snowflakes flying past the glass; looking at her phone, ignoring messages; staring at Isabella’s hands, one around the steering wheel, the other lazily resting atop the gearstick. Something embarrassing stirs inside Charlotte watching her do something as simple as switching gears with the practiced ease of someone who doesn’t even think about it, seeing her look around, in the mirror, even using her blinker.

“Why London?” Her voice is rough from the cold and the strained silence, but the woman is not startled. She means to say _why here, what is a woman like you doing in a place like this, what accent molds your words and decorates your voice,_ but she doesn’t elaborate.

“Family legacy, mostly. My family is not…conventional, we’re all scattered around. I studied up North, then went to Spain for a few years, and when duty called, I found a position at the University and came back.” She imagines the woman at her age, studying somewhere in Newcastle or Leeds, bright-eyed and with a brilliant future ahead of her; a bit older in Spain, learning the language, starting anew all alone, finding her place in the world before coming back to the place she used to call home.

 “Were you scared to leave?”

The woman smiles amusedly, and pointedly looks at her. “Were _you_ scared? You’re not home, are you?”

“ _Touché_.” She lets a smile simmer. “Is this what you always wanted? How you pictured your life?”

That draws a sigh from the woman’s lips. “Parts of it are. Others, well, just happen.”

They’re nearing campus, which means they are close to Charlotte’s destination. She feels comfortable, too comfortable, the familiar streets and Isabella’s solid presence next to her bringing down her walls. Their approaching separation drives words unbidden out of her mouth.

“I had been looking forward to today all week. Cancelled all the plans I had, I even told my sister about it. About you.” Her voice is soft and sure, but she doesn’t look at the woman, afraid that what she finds will crumble her confidence. “About how I hate numbers and formulas, but I find myself dying to sit down in that back row, every Tuesday and every Thursday. I don’t know what it is, but I can’t get it, _you_ , out of my head.” She doesn’t give her time to reply before she tells her to drop her off, that she’s close enough to home.

The car comes to a stop by the pavement, and the engine turns off, leaving them in absolute silence. Charlotte can’t stand the atmosphere she created. Her mind goes back to when she broke up with Daniel inside his old Fiat, her chest constricting just the same, broken promises hanging in the air, occupying the space that air should be taking up in her lungs.

“Thank you,” she rasps out, the tears she won’t let fall constricting her throat from the inside, “for everything. I’ll see you on Tuesday.”

She’s halfway out the door when Isabella grabs her wrist for the second time tonight.

“No, please, wait.”

Charlotte slumps back into the seat, looking at her with pleading eyes, as if asking _please, don’t make this more painful than it is_ and for the first time, the woman looks as lost as she feels. The door’s still wide open, and the cold is creeping inside her body almost as fast as her shame.

“Look Charlotte, I…”

“No, no. Don’t say it, okay? Don’t say anything. Just,” her brow is furrowed in despair, but she is still to remove Isabella’s hand from hers, “just let it be. For now. I had a bit to drink, and…”

“So did I.”

She doesn’t expect the tug, doesn’t expect the sudden closeness, the way in which her freezing breath forms and ends between their mouths, the ardent touch of Isabella’s hand on her cheek. She doesn’t expect it, but _god_ , does she welcome it.

When the woman speaks, her lips brush over Charlotte’s, as gentle as a gust of wind. “I hope I’m not crazy.”

The younger woman cannot blame the alcohol for the way in which she leans forward, melting into the other’s mouth. She doesn’t dare move much for fear of whatever line she hasn’t crossed already, allowing herself to feel this moment of euphoria before it’s over, far too soon.

Isabella doesn’t let it happen. Her hand pushes Charlotte’s stray curls behind her ear and it stays there, pushing their heads closer, the kiss deeper. They don’t feel the cold anymore, only a profound, all-consuming hunger that leaves them breathless between every kiss, their fingers itching to touch and discover and unravel but still so very shy.

Isabella pulls back, panting, not yet sated.

“Why are you smiling?” The smile is obvious in her own voice too, and the younger woman simply shakes her head, pressing her forehead to Isabella’s.

“Just a minute ago I had my heart crack in my chest, and now you’ve pulled it together.” There’s a disbelieving smile on her face, one it would take a miracle to erase. There’s a kind of giddiness that she hasn’t experienced in a long time, one ignited by anticipation and happiness and _passion_ , and it’s almost palpable in the air.

Isabella’s wet laugh, emotional and vulnerable, nurtures her soul. “Who knew you were a poet as well.”

She gets lost in the woman’s mouth, in her promising touches, in her hair, in the tight coil in her gut that tells her _please, please_ but she won’t obey, not now.

Minutes have passed that feel like hours, like a small eternity bottled in a remote corner of the universe, only for them.

“It’s getting late.”

“Will I see you soon?” Isabella understands. _Will I see you only on Tuesdays and Thursdays?_

The woman is contemplative for a moment, sincere when she nods. “Soon.”

“May I?” Charlotte asks, gesturing to the phone on the space between them, wanting to make sure that they have a way to communicate outside impersonal emails and awkward office hours. Isabella picks it up to unlock it and gives it to Charlotte with a curious expression. She puts it back when she’s done, looking at the woman candidly.

“I’ll be waiting.”

They part with a soft kiss, and she is so overcome with delirium that she doesn’t care about the neighbours hearing her childlike squeal on her way home.

 

\--

 

She tells the girls _almost_ everything, casually leaving out the eventful ride home, which they assume she did on the metro. It’s not that she doesn’t trust them, but the foundation she and Isabella built is still on shaky legs; she would rather minimize the risk. Besides, although she hates thinking about it, there is something hammering in the back of her head, the possibility of Isabella regretting it, _them_ , taking back everything she said and did last night, wishing she hadn’t been so reckless. The thought burns her alive.

She receives a text on Sunday morning from an unknown number. Emily is making coffee loudly with Kitty in their shared kitchen, their animated voices filling the dreary morning. Fanny is quieter on the couch, working on something on her laptop, generally uninterested by their matinal chatter. None of them pay Charlotte any attention when she moves her laptop aside, mute excitement clear in her face, and reads the text.

_Did you give me the right number?_

She cannot contain the grin blossoming on her face.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the weird mix of American and British English, I did try


End file.
